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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703414">the path is lonely (but with you i forget)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia'>Setkia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Pining, Probably Slow Burn as Fuck, The Early Years of Travelling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:02:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703414</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly by slowly, towns fall in love with the White Wolf.</p><p>Slowly by slowly, Jaskier falls in love with Geralt of Rivia.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. a tavern in Posada: Jaskier</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi, I don't know what I'm doing. I haven't even finished the Witcher (I'm too disgusted by guts and shit to watch it alone so I'm at episode 6 ...) so this is going to be a mess. I wanted to explore Jaskier &amp; Geralt's relationship in those early days, when they first got to know each other. So this was born. I don't know how long it'll be, and once I finish the series, I guess I'll figure out if I want to delve deeper but this is essentially going to cover their first year or so together at least.</p><p>As a student of Liberal Arts, I am so fucking happy Jaskier exists. Also I did my research. He would've started university at 14, let's say he's a prodigy and finishes in 3 years. Canonically (I've read wiki pages) he teaches for a year before wondering off. This puts him at 18 and a half, maybe 19 when he's in Posada. I wanted to start the story at the beginning of Jaskier's career as a bard, and show how much he changes and evolves as a person and learns. I love character studies, is what I'm saying. </p><p>The words were taken by me re-watching their meeting scene from a YouTube video with CCs on, so some of the noises Jaskier makes are ... weird. Joey Batey makes a lot of mouth sounds.</p><p>I don't know what I'm doing, please be kind! I have the first meeting with Geralt through the Witcher's POV. I wanted to study this dynamic. I've looked into their past given the books and am continuing to learn (not much of a gamer, sorry), so I wanted to show a slow build of respect and appreciation for each other to mix the very clear friendship that exists in the books to the weird dynamic of the show (basically they have their own language and I wanted to give it a shot).</p><p>Because I'm gay as fuck and there's no way Joey Batey played Jaskier as a remotely 100% heterosexual man, there will be pining. I'm trying to stay true to their characterizations as a writing exercise, but also because I want them to be believable. I know fanfic stretches that line but I pride myself in being able to do in-character writing. Let's see what happens, shall we? </p><p>I swear I won't write author notes these long other than the first chap.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Don’t walk in front of me- I may not follow; don’t walk behind- I may not lead; walk beside me and just be my friend.”- Albert Camus</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>He’ll be the first to admit that singing of abortion in a small town like Posada is probably a mistake, but it hardly warrants the thrown food and shout to “abort yourself”. It’s a waste of good bread, the way he sees it, and given that he’s only been at this travelling thing for a few days, it’d be a shame to let it go mouldy on the floor so he picks it up and shoves it in his pants as subtly as he can.</p><p>As he stands up again, he can see in the very corner of the tavern a white haired man he first caught sight of during his first set. He’s got a rigid profile and stiff limbs, He may not even be blinking. </p><p>Jaskier doubts he’ll be welcomed back to this little tavern, and four days is long enough for him in Posada, so he strides towards the man with purpose, a tankard in hand.</p><p>Leaning against a pole with an ease that is practiced and hopefully convincing, he prepares his charm.</p><p>“I love the way you just … sit in the corner and brood.”</p><p>
  <em>Okay, that could’ve gone better.</em>
</p><p>“I’m here to drink alone.”</p><p>That voice is deep. So deep, Jaskier feels it in his <em>bones</em>. </p><p>“Good. Yeah, good,” he says trying to shrug off the cold reception. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except … for you.” He’d have noticed. There wasn’t a single twitch from any one of his songs. Not once. </p><p>“Come on.” He takes a slight step closer, daring to be bold. “You don’t want to keep a man with … bread in his pants waiting.” </p><p>Not his best work, to be sure, but he slides into the seat across from him and turns up his smile.</p><p>“You must have a review for me. Three words or less.”</p><p>The man looks at him with golden eyes. The kind of eyes he’s only heard of in legends, in his textbooks. Something tells him he’s not staring at any run of the mill fighter. </p><p>For a moment, he thinks the man’ll remain silent and he should give up while the barmaid still seems interested, but then—</p><p>“They don’t exist.”</p><p>It’s literally three words, but he’ll take it. </p><p>“What don’t exist?”</p><p>“The creatures in your song.”</p><p>“And how would you know?”</p><p>The man cocks his head to the side slightly.</p><p>Jaskier takes him in, in his entirety and slowly, things begin to click into place. </p><p>“Oh, fun. White hair … big, old loner, two very …" His eyes flit between the blades and the man. “Very scary-looking swords.”</p><p>He stands up.</p><p>“I know who you are.”</p><p>The man begins to make his exit, but Jaskier is far too intrigued to let this go.</p><p>“You’re the Witcher,” he says, following after as best as he can. “Geralt of Rivia.”</p><p>The tavern door slams.</p><p>“Called it!”</p><p><br/>He doesn’t have long, and he knows it, so he grabs his lute from the corner in which it rests and his bag and chases after him.</p><p>He’s been in Posada not even a week, and he’s already run through all his written songs. He can only stand local folk songs for so long before he gets bored. The chords are simple, and the lyrics are simply uninspired. He’s been writing half-arsed verses for weeks, even before he set out. He needs something <em>new</em>.</p><p>Looking for a devil sounds more than a little intriguing, and maybe it’ll spark something, to get his creative juices flowing. Sometimes he just needs a break from the same old routine.</p><p>Something tells him this man is it.</p><p>The Witcher, a creature found only in storybooks and bedtime stories meant to scare children to sleep has a horse, but he’s not riding it. He’s heard the tales. This is an <em>opportunity</em>, and he’ll take it with both hands.</p><p>Besides, if the Witcher really wanted to get rid of him, it’d be easy. He’ll take his relatively slow pace as acquiescence.</p><p>“Need a hand? I’ve got two.” Jaskier falls into step next to the light haired man. “One for each the, uh, devil’s horns.”</p><p>“Go away.”</p><p>He still hasn’t mounted his horse, so Jaskier figures he still has time to change his mind.</p><p>“I won’t be but silent back up.” The Witcher may speed up, and though Jaskier is a little tired, he speeds up too. “I heard your note, and yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories.”</p><p>Maybe that’ll please him. To know Jaskier <em>listened</em>.</p><p>He ignores him.</p><p>“And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.” He’s getting a bit winded. Maybe the man can tell, and that’s why he’s slowing his pace. Jaskier greatly appreciates it.</p><p>“It’s onion.”</p><p>Huh. Nothing Jaskier has learnt about Witchers suggested they have a sense of humour.</p><p>“Right, yeah. Yeah.” He trails behind, desperately trying to figure out a way to keep the man around. He can sell him on this, he can sell <em>himself</em>. It’s the whole point of being a noble, isn’t it? </p><p>“Ooh, I could be your barker! Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the—” He searches desperately to remember anything else about the man who’s back is facing him with a finality that leaves his mouth sour. “The Butcher of Blaviken!”</p><p>The Witcher stops.</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t find the title of Butcher to be the <em>worst</em> name out there, but he could think of a better one. It suggests brutality and efficiency, which, yes, a Witcher is, but he suspects there’s more. The exchange with Nettly’s racing through his head, and while he’s not an expert, relatively inexperienced in the ways of life compared to others, he trusts his gut.</p><p>The Witcher’s different.</p><p>The Butcher of Blaviken is the wrong name. He’s not sure what to replace it with, but it reminds one too quickly of that one incident. Doesn’t tell the whole story. Doesn’t embody the pride and grace of the Witcher.</p><p>They’ll work on it.</p><p>The Witcher turns to face him and Jaskier brightens. They’re finally seeing eye to eye, then.</p><p>“Come here,” he says with a gesture of his hand.</p><p>Jaskier tries to hold in his pants, pretend he’s not nearly as tired as he is from chasing after the man who has the advantage of a horse and Witcher powers, and takes a few steps forward that he hopes don’t look as wobbly as he feels.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>He gets gutted.</p><p>The sheer force of the man’s strength has him stumbling backwards and while sometimes Jaskier has played the class clown, there’s no act in the way he stumbles and eventually falls.</p><p>“Ho ho,” he says because he can’t quite handle silence. “Uhh …” He bowls over, clutching his stomach. </p><p>He’s not strong, he knows that, but he’s not normally this weak either. Maybe it’s because he’s been skipping meals. He can play for taverns, and they don’t owe him anything. He’s getting free publicity, and so the meals still cost coin that he doesn’t always have so maybe it’s his empty stomach that has him ready to hurl, not that there’s anything to spill.</p><p>“C’mon Roach,” says the Witcher.</p><p>Jaskier tries to stand up but the Witcher just keeps walking.</p><p>His pace doesn’t quicken though.</p><p>Jaskier’ll find him again.</p><p>It’s just holistics.</p><p>Besides, a big bad Witcher naming their horse <em>Roach</em>?</p><p>Now he <em>has</em> to stick around.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. a tavern in Posada: Geralt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The bard has been eyeing him since the start of his set.</p><p>He’s nothing special, not really. He’s got decent vocals and he’s wearing an obnoxious outfit which loudly announces his profession in the entertainment industry. He’s not the worst vocalist he’s ever heard, and his songs are entertaining, with more depth to them than most musicians but lies are still lies.</p><p>A prettier package than most. He’ll do well in his career, Geralt can tell.</p><p>Course, then he mentions abortion.</p><p>Part of him wonders what else the bard expecting, throwing a word like that around, but he’s rather impressed with the balls on the songbird.</p><p>And then the man starts making his way over towards him.</p><p>“I love the way you just … sit in the corner and brood.”</p><p>He’s not impressed, and the bard can tell.</p><p>“I’m here to drink alone.”</p><p>“Good. Yeah, good,” he says, and despite the fact that Geralt has made his dismissal very clear, he keeps talking. He’s playing with fire, which must mean he’s as idiotic as anyone else who trusts feeble strings to keep them fed.</p><p>“Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with … bread in his pants waiting.”</p><p>They both know those words were a mistake.</p><p>He looks him over, at his hair that’s properly groomed and fancy, at the buttons on his surely expensive shirt. This man has never had to work hard a day in his life, and is most likely only just starting on a musical career path. </p><p>He has to learn things the hard way.</p><p>“They don’t exist.”</p><p>“What don’t exist?” asks the bard with the innocence of a lamb.</p><p>“The creatures in your song.”</p><p>“And how would you know?”</p><p>Geralt wonders if the man is truly a clotpole. Perhaps he doesn’t know anything other than lyrics. He’s not on the defensive, he’s not trying to protect himself. He’s not spitting words of hate at him either. He has the self-preservation instincts of a Witcher.</p><p>Geralt is sort of impressed.</p><p>He’s not here to be stared at though so he stands up and makes his way out of the tavern with quick, efficient strides. He hears of the Devil of Posada, and it’s a job, even though he doubts it’s as clear cut as the man makes it sound.</p><p>He can smell the bard.</p><p>He’s got a weird scent, one that doesn’t sit right with him.</p><p>Everyone has a scent, a smell that follows them everywhere, built into their bones. It’s the most distinctive feature of anyone, and yet … he’s not sure what’s missing. He smells like other people. As though someone has bottled up the scents of those in the tavern, and he bathed in it. Not one person’s scent overpowering anyone else’s, but just wrong enough on him that Geralt knows nothing he smells is the bard himself.</p><p>“Need a hand?” </p><p>Shit. He slowed down too much.</p><p>“I’ve got two. One for each the, uh, devil’s horns.”</p><p>“Go away.”</p><p>“I won’t be but silent back up.”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t need a Witcher’s nose to smell that bullshit a mile away.</p><p>“I heard your note, and yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them. Amongst other things.”</p><p>
  <em>Do not look at him. It’ll only encourage him.</em>
</p><p>“I mean, what is that? Is that onion? It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”</p><p>Geralt <em>does</em> smell of death. It’s not his scent, not the one he carries a person, but it is one that follows him everywhere. The only companion fit for a Witcher is Death. Any one who says else wise is a naive romantic.</p><p>Time for the little songbird to face reality.</p><p>“It’s onion.”</p><p>“Right, yeah. Yeah.” </p><p>Despite his words, Geralt can tell the bard doesn’t get it.</p><p>“Ooh, I could be your barker!”</p><p><em>No</em>, Geralt wants to snap. <em>That’s a terrible idea.</em></p><p>“Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the—” there’s a pause, and he almost thinks it won’t happen, but then— “the Butcher of Blaviken!”</p><p>He stops.</p><p>Turning around, he takes a moment to take in the bard’s face. His arms are spread wide, a big smile plastered on his idiotic face. So many targets, so little time.</p><p>“Come here,” he says, gesturing with a finger so there’s no mistake about where he wants him.</p><p>“Yeah?” He sounds so hopeful.</p><p>Geralt guts him.</p><p>He pretends he can’t hear his groans, or the dust kick up when he hits the ground. He tightens his grip on Roach, and guides her away with a gentle word.</p><p>Bards live in self-constructed fantasies. Even if Geralt <em>wanted</em> to take the nameless bard with him, he’d be eaten alive on the blood stained path he walks.</p><p>Besides, he’s got a devil to catch.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi, I forgot the timing of the Edge of the World and have had to adjust for it. So there's some more purely show content for a bit.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. the edge of the world: Jaskier</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I use bold text to indicate Elder. Also I'm writing this same scene through Geralt's POV, but I don't think it's worth it? Thoughts? We'll get original material soon, depending on if I do this chapter through Geralt's POV.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The moment the wind return to Jaskier’s lungs, he’s chasing after the Witcher again.</p><p>“Reading between the lines and the gut punches, chum, I’d say you’ve got a bit of a … an image problem.” He slings his lute over his shoulder, grateful it wasn’t harmed in the little tousle. He’s not sure if he can afford a new one just yet. “Were I to join you on this … feat to defeat the devil of Posada, I could relieve you of that title.”</p><p>They see eye to eye on that name, even if the Witcher won’t admit it.</p><p>“All the North would be too busy singing the tales of … Geralt of Rivia, the- the White Wolf, or- or something.”</p><p>He can think of something better. Just give him time. (Please, just a little time.)</p><p>“Butcher’s right,” grunts the Witcher.</p><p>“D’you mind if I hop on there with you?” He nods at the man’s steed. His feet are beginning to ache. It’s not easy thing, to catch up with a Witcher. “It’s just, I’m not really wearing the right footwear.”</p><p>“Don’t touch Roach.”</p><p>Well, that settles that, then.</p><p>“Yeah, right, yeah.”</p><p>The Witcher dismounts, and now he’s a little salty. If he’s not even planning on using his horse, why not give Jaskier a little help in that department? The man’s completely ignoring him though, as if he’s not there.</p><p>“The elves called this Dol Blathanna before bequeathing it to the humans, and retreating into their golden palaces in the mountains,” Jaskier says. See? He can be useful. He’s an educated young man with a mind that learns quick. “There I go again, just … delivering exposition.”</p><p>And then the Witcher disappears into the tall grass.</p><p>“Geralt? Geralt? Wh-where are you going?” </p><p>Okay. Jaskier didn’t think this through.</p><p>“Geralt, don’t leave me.”</p><p>No response.</p><p>“Hello? What are we looking for again?”</p><p>“Blessed silence.”</p><p>Ah, that Witcher humour strikes again.</p><p>“Yeah, I don’t really go in for that. Have you, uh, have you ever hunted a devil before?” Jaskier wants to ask, you know, just to get an idea of how much experience Geralt has. Witchers live really long, and are expert killers, but maybe he’s kinda shitty at doing in devils. He’d say this aloud if he didn’t think the man would snap his neck, but he’s made his stance on Jaskier’s chattiness clear and he’s trying to make a deal right now so he’ll play nice for once.</p><p>“Devils don’t exist.”</p><p>“Right. Obviously.” A Witcher would know better than him anyway, yeah? “Then, uh … then what are we doing?”</p><p>Geralt is quiet as he treads quietly through the tall stalks. How he can possibly imagine he’s sneaky when he sticks out like a sore thumb is beyond Jaskier, but pointing that out seems rude.</p><p>“Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money.” There’s something about his tone, his deep voice, that suggests he’s talking more to himself than Jaskier. “Rarely both. That’s the life.”</p><p>Suddenly, something comes flying and hits Geralt square in the forehead.</p><p>“Shit!”</p><p>Jaskier’s getting quite excited. It’s better to be excited than scared, that’s for sure. Adrenaline keeps him in a better mood than quivering in fear anyway, so he focuses on that instead.</p><p>“Act two begins!”</p><p>Eager to get a closer look, Jaskier enters into the greenery. </p><p>“What was that? Looks like a tiny cannonball from a …” His voice trails off when he sees the horns. They’re hard to spot, given how bloody tall the grass is here, or maybe it’s some sort of plant. Maybe they’re in a wheat field. Jaskier isn’t sure, but he knows his heart is racing.</p><p>“Oh my gosh. Geralt .... It is a devil.”</p><p>Then it moves.</p><p>“Ooh. I have to see this magic, this mythi—”</p><p>Blackness.</p><p> </p><p><br/>Jaskier comes to bound.</p><p>His head is pounding worse than any sorry hangover, and he doesn’t know how long the adrenaline is supposed to last, but he’s quite sure he’s near the end of it.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>Where’s his lute?</p><p>Twisting his body, he tries to get his bearings. He’s got no idea where he is. The walls are crumbling, the ground feels unsteady. He doesn’t like it, but that’s a given. It’s a beautiful place to write prose about, a place that tells tale of great battles, a location that was once great, and has now fallen into ruin. A secret hidden in the cracks of the foundation. He can see his lute, leaning against a wall he doesn’t trust to support the instrument.</p><p>And then he’s physically shaken. Jostled, and deep grunts meet his ears and he realizes the heat against his back was a <em>person</em>. It’s the Witcher.</p><p>“This is the part where we escape,” Jaskier sings, pressing against him slightly more. He has no reason to trust the Witcher, beyond the fact that he’s defied all expectations, and that his solid body brings him an odd sort of comfort, like being pressed against a well-known wall.</p><p>“This is the part where they kill us,” hisses the Witcher.</p><p>“<b>Beast!</b>”</p><p>Jaskier knows that sound. The way those constant roll off the tongue. That’s <em>Elder</em>.</p><p>“Elves.”</p><p><em>Yeah, no shit.</em> He’s about to say so, when—</p><p>“Oi, that’s my lute! Give that back!”</p><p>He’s not sure if he can afford another one.</p><p>He’s totally ignored.</p><p>“Quick, Geralt. Do your- your witchering—”</p><p>“Shut up!”</p><p>
  <em>Well, that’s rude—</em>
</p><p>“<b>No, you shut up!</b>”</p><p>Jaskier sighs. Right. The lute isn’t the most important thing, given the situation, but it's familiar ground. It’s comforting, in a way, to fuss over the lute. It’s such a small thing, but there’ so much happening that he can’t process, so he chooses one thing to focus on and sue him, it’s his lute.</p><p>“My Elder speech is rough. I only got part of that.” He’s out of practice, getting rusty. There was a time his best class was Elder. That time has passed.</p><p>“Humans, shut up.”</p><p><b>“Ah, got it, thanks so much,</b>” Jaskier bites back in Elder.</p><p>He appreciates the slight look of surprise on the elf’s face at his words. He’s not just another pretty face. They called him a prodigy at Oxenfurt. She gets over it quickly though, and her face hardens.</p><p>“Do you want to die right now?” Her tone is harsh, sharp. It’s not the first time someone’s used that tone with him. The bard’s been informed he’s … taxing.</p><p>“As opposed to later?” snaps Geralt.</p><p>There’s the familiar sound of strings and—</p><p>“No, please, not the lu—”</p><p>
  <em>Well, fuck.</em>
</p><p>“Leave off!” the Witcher snarls. “He’s just a bard!”</p><p>“You don’t deserve the air you breathe,” the elf sneers. If Jaskier twists the right way, he can see her expression. It’s like it hurts her to sully her tongue with the language of humans. “Everything you touch, you destroy.”</p><p>“You hide in your golden palaces. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” Jaskier puts as much venom into his voice as he can. He’s thrashing slightly against his ropes, and his side aches. He may need to see a healer after this.</p><p>“Do you like my palace? Hmm?” the elf inquires. “Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?”</p><p>Geralt delivers a blow with all the menace Jaskier intended with his words.</p><p>“Yeah, take that, Pointy!” It’s not his best insult, but there’s hardly anyone to hear it.</p><p>The elf keels over, coughing. That sick look of hers hasn’t disappeared. If anything, it seems to have gotten worse. She’s hacking, and while he knows the Witcher is strong, there’s something that’s just … <em>not right</em> about it.</p><p>“Wait, what’s — what’s wrong with her?”</p><p>“She’s sick.”</p><p>
  <em>Wonderful. More elves.</em>
</p><p>“Oh, and who’s this?”</p><p>“He’s Filavandrel,” says the Devil of Posada, because apparently everyone is here. “King of the Elves.”</p><p>“Not a king, not by choice,” says Filavandrel.</p><p>There’s something about his tone, something that makes the gears shift, and then it clicks.</p><p>“You were stealing for them.”</p><p>“I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.”</p><p>“Forced out?” Jaskier echoes. “No, they <em>chose</em>—”</p><p>“Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home?” demands Filavandrel. “To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?”</p><p>He’s never heard it put like that before. And suddenly, all the lessons he’s learnt, all the dates and facts he’s memorized are suspicious. Why <em>would </em>someone leave their home?</p><p>“Toruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.”</p><p>“What’s two humans in the ground when countless elves have died?” the female elf spits.</p><p><em>History really is written by the winners</em>. Jaskier wants to ask how many other things he believes to be true are just pretty lies. Cover ups for atrocities. The Great Cleansing is put in an entirely new light and there’s a sickness in his gut that has nothing to do with the bruises.</p><p>“One human,” says the Witcher. “And you can let him go.”</p><p>“Then Posada will learn we’ve been stealing. The humans will attack. Many will die.” Filavandrel’s gaze immobilizes Jaskier more than his bonds. “On both sides.”</p><p>“The lesser evil,” Geralt insists. “No matter what you choose, you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me.”</p><p>“That’s the problem. I can’t. This is necessary.”</p><p>“I understand,” says Geralt and Jaskier believes him. “As long as you understand that it won’t be long before you follow me in death.”</p><p>And then he hears history, as told by the losers.</p><p>In school everything seemed so crystal clear. No room for questions. Black and white.</p><p>Jaskier is watching an exchange of grey, and it’s turning his stomach.</p><p>“Then go somewhere else,” says Geralt. “Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.”</p><p>“Like you, Witcher?”</p><p>The tension is thick. It suffocates him. He feels like a doll, useless and motionless, imprisoned by new truths that are hard to swallow, and worse to ignore.</p><p>“I have learned to live with them. So that I may live.”</p><p>The elf woman makes a plea for action. A call to fight, with an army of young who are prepared to sacrifice anything so they can reclaim what is owed to them.</p><p>History is happening before his eyes.</p><p>And then the blade glints in the light. The time for talking is over,—</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p>The Devil of Posada makes a plea for the Witcher’s life. It’s an unexpected turn of events, and Jaskier cannot even begin to voice how <em>useless </em>he feels. Even the Devil has a say in history. He wouldn’t be surprised if they forgot he’s here. He feels like a spectator, too far removed to be of any help.</p><p>“If you must kill me, I am ready,” says Geralt. Jaskier has never heard conviction like this. “But the Sylvan’s right. Don’t call me human.”</p><p>The word sounds <em>wrong </em>on the Witcher’s tongue. Full of distain and irritation.</p><p>Jaskier’s starting to wonder what’s so great about being human anyway.</p><p><br/>By the time they’re back in sunlight, Jaskier’s got a lot to think about. But pondering about the inherent morality of his own species is a bit much to ask on a day that’s already gone so to shit, so he shelves it in favour of ramblings.</p><p>“Credit where credit is due, that whole reverse-psychology thing you did on them was <em>brilliant</em>, by the way.” He puffs out his chest. “Kill me, I’m ready.”</p><p>It’s not a terrible impression, he thinks.</p><p>Geralt glances at him from atop of Roach, before looking back forward at the path ahead. Clearly they disagree on this front.</p><p>“That’s the conclusion,” Jaskier says, because he’s still processing. “They just let us go, and you give all of Nettly’s coin to the elves.”</p><p><em>Sometimes there’s monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both</em>.</p><p>“Filavandrel’s lute not gift enough for you?”</p><p>Jaskier grins at the new instrument strapped to his side. His other possessions are a lost cause, but a lute of elven design is nothing to scoff at. “Yeah, she is a bit sexy, isn’t she?”</p><p>He can <em>feel </em>the eye roll, even if he can’t see it.</p><p>“I do have respect for Filavandrel.” He needs to prove that he’s better than humans, or at least, he will be. “He survived the Great Cleansing once.” That name sits bad on his tongue, knowing the truth as he does. “Who knows? Maybe he can do it again. Be reborn.”</p><p>That’s not a bad idea for a song …</p><p>
  <em>“Will the elf king heed what the Witcher entreats?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Is history a wheel doomed to repeat?”</em>
</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>“No, that’s … that’s shit.”</p><p>People don’t want to hear about <em>truth</em>. The truth is something they run from. They can’t stand to face atrocities and so they’re called the Great Cleansing and tales are told of a peaceful exchange between humanity and the elves. The world isn’t ready for respect, not yet.</p><p>“This is where we part ways, bard.” The Witcher’s dismissive tone reminds Jaskier of childhood. “For good.”</p><p>“I promised to change the public’s tune about you. At least allow me to try.” He tries to pretend he isn’t begging, isn’t pleading. He’s not sure he succeeds.</p><p>“I’m a Witcher,” says the Witcher. “A butcher. Their tune is right.”</p><p>“Now, I don’t think that’s strictly true.”</p><p>After all, he could’ve gone for a fuck ton more of violence. He could’ve killed the Devil of Posada. Could’ve killed the elves. With his terrifying swords and the might to back it up, the man never has to face adversity or use diplomacy. Not if he’s not in the mood.</p><p>Jaskier’s seen nobles barter. Seen them cut up land, and decide where borders are. Seen marriages of convenience, seen men take up arms over something much smaller than grain.</p><p>Maybe the common Witcher is one of merciless brute force. Maybe the mutants are bred for battle, drained of emotion and feeling. Maybe the medallion is a warning to hide the children and never cross a Witcher’s path, less you wish a gory demise.</p><p>But not this Witcher.</p><p>Maybe history isn’t ready for truth like the Great Cleansing, but change has to start somewhere.</p><p>“What’ve you got to lose? Hmm?”</p><p>“Blessed silence,” says Geralt.</p><p>“Ah, you’ll get used to my voice.” It’s not a real complaint, and it’s not like Geralt <em>had </em>to tell the elves to let Jaskier go. He can’t irritate the Witcher <em>that </em>much. “What do you say? Let me travel with you a bit. See if I can’t shake up the Continent with tales of the White Wolf?”</p><p>He rather likes that title.</p><p>Strong. Prideful. A natural born leader.</p><p>Much more fitting than Butcher.</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I find Jaskier has learnt shit all travelling with a Witcher, given that the show takes place over like 20 years and he's still the same, so I'm aiming to change that. First thing? Culture shock.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Geralt: the outskirts of Posada</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I thought about doing the edge of the world by Geralt's POV, then opted out. Also realized I know nothing about Continent geography so my choice to name chapters based on location was a very stupid one. Sorry. This isn't going to be accurate. I'll look at maps, but I can't guarantee anything.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If Geralt really wanted, he could be free of the bard in a human heartbeat.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Soon enough, the man’ll grow tired of following a Witcher. He’ll realize the scent of death never really goes away, and as someone who clearly enjoys the finer things, he’ll fuck off soon enough. Most likely the moment they get to the nearest town, since he can’t exactly show proof of death to Nettly, and all his coin went to the elves anyway.</p><p>He looks so out of place, with his colourful doublet and insistent need to try out chords on the new lute. He’s been singing the same line with a few alterations for the past half hour.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t eat people, but human flesh would certainly fill him more than the rabbit he’s been chewing on.</p><p>Mercifully, the bard stops singing.</p><p>But then—</p><p>“I was thinking about music, and the appropriate occasions for it. I’ve played for celebrations, and occasionally, mournful ceremonies, which are certainly not my favourite, but given the situation of the elves, when would there be need for it? Or rather, when would it be appropriate? Their situation seems far too dire to waste time on something as … well, not useless, but unproductive when they’re all starving.</p><p>“I mean, the arts are very under-appreciated, in favour of the sciences, but you know, I studied science too, it’s not just music and painting when you’re in university. True, art is considered a pass-time to many, and only worth much to the nobles, but it’s also quite freeing. I mean, there’s a reason it’s the <em>liberal arts</em>, and not the er, caging arts …” He frowns, as though he knows his tangent has gone rather sour. “Anyway, I just meant that —”</p><p>“Shut. Up.”</p><p>“Right.” The bard rubs his forehead and looks down at his own rabbit Geralt caught for him. “Er.”</p><p>“Eat.”</p><p>“Yeah. Right.”</p><p>The bard is staring at the rabbit as though he’s never seen one before. He grips it with his hands as though he’s never eaten anything without utensils.</p><p>“They never teach you to eat at university?”</p><p>He gets a spluttering sound in response.</p><p>The bard wipes his hands on his trousers. “Erm. Well, I mean, etiquette is taught, of course, though I’ve never needed those classes, in particular. The whole concept that manners must be taught, instead of naturally existing within a person is evident every time I go into a tavern. Brutes, the lot of ‘em.”</p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Not you. Well. Sort of, you. I mean, I’ve seen people behaving worse. Your worst crime is most likely how anti-social you are. But as long as you aren’t harming anyone, I suppose you’re no threat.”</p><p>Huh. A Witcher who isn’t a threat.</p><p>“Was that a smile?” asks the bard.</p><p>Geralt school his features.</p><p>“Oh, c’mon. Okay, next time you show emotion, I won’t comment on it.”</p><p>Geralt takes the rabbit from the musician and cuts it further, into smaller pieces that are probably less intimidating than the entire carcass. The bard gives him a thankful look. It doesn’t do humans good to get attached to things, so he ignores it.</p><p>“Finish up. I want to look at your wound before it gets too dark.”</p><p>Geralt doesn't really have bandages for such a small injury as the bump to the forehead the human has suffered. He mostly lets his own injuries fade over time, and only uses a large wrap when necessary, normally when his torso doesn’t cooperate when he tries to inhale. The potions he has are lethal to humans, and so he busies himself with thinking of the best way to tend to the human’s head while the bard eats his rabbit, strumming on the blasted lute all the while.</p>
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